How to Cook Husbands

V

I had not forgotten Mr. Chance. This fact annoyed me excessively, since I saw that he had forgotten me. A forgotten man may remember a woman, and preserve his self-respect, if not his merriment; but when a forgotten woman remembers a man, that is quite another thing. Not that I was brooding over Mr. Chance—far from it; I thought very little of him, in one way, for I frequently saw him with Miss Sprig; but in spite of all that, I could not quite forget the impression he made upon me the day those boys killed the gay little squirrel, and again the day the poor mother went down into the deep, dark water with her child held close to her agonized heart. The feeling I experienced for him on that awful day, was unique in my history. I had never been an impressionable girl as far as men were concerned—I was not an impressionable woman. For me to carry the thought of a man home with me—for me to dwell upon this thought, and above all to take pleasure in dwelling upon it, meant more than it would have meant for some women. That was as far as the matter had gone, but it was far enough—too far, considering his evident indifference, and I was humiliated, for the first time in my life, over my attitude toward a man. This mortification induced me to treat Mr. Chance even more coldly than I should have done ordinarily, though his trifling with Miss Sprig would have called forth some coolness of conduct under any circumstances.

I had abundant opportunity to express myself in this way, for Mr. Chance’s night work necessitated late rising, and I saw him to speak to him almost every morning. Indeed, I took some pains to be in my garden during the forenoon, and from this vantage ground I could not only see much that took place between himself and Miss Sprig, but I also had opportunity to speak with him as he passed my house, on his way to the train.

Sometimes Miss Sprig walked to the station with him. He evidently absorbed much of her time and thought, and she evidently regarded him as her latest victim, for she made him a common subject of talk, and her entire acquaintance had the pleasure of hearing the foolish things he did and said. She always represented him as deeply in love with her; I have no doubt she really thought that he was.

For my own part, I cared very little whether he was in love, as it is called, or not. If he had succumbed to such a shallow-pated, bold, common girl, I felt contempt for him, and this contempt was deepened when I realized that he might be trifling with her. In any event it mortified and angered me to think he had been seen with me; (he had often called upon me and we had been out together several times), and that the old neighborhood gossips had coupled our names. Now it would be reported that Miss Sprig had cut me out; if I was pleasant toward him, they would wag their foolish old heads, and whisper about my efforts to win him back; if I was cool, they would shake these same empty pates, and prattle about my wounded affections. It was one of those cases where you can’t possibly do the right thing—I mean the thing that will silence the clacking tongue: consequently, as luck would have it, I plunged into the worst possible course I could have taken, for when Mrs. Catlin, who lived catacorner from me, and who watched me as a cat watches a mouse, said something one day about Mr. Chance’s feeling bound to pay attention to Mr. Purblind’s cousin, as long as she was visiting there, and that she knew such a girl wasn’t to his taste, and she was sure he would come to his senses soon, I was so angry that I lost control of my temper, and all control of my wits, and blazed out with:

“It’s none of my business or concern whom he pays attention to, and for my part I think they’re well mated.”

Whereupon, realizing I had made a perfect fool of myself, and that this speech of mine would go the rounds of the suburb, and I could never erase it from the village mind—not if I lived a hundred sensible years, I had much ado to withhold myself from seizing a pot of bachelors’ buttons that stood near, and breaking the whole thing over Mrs. Catlin’s idiotic skull.

It was on top of this pleasant interview with Mrs. Catlin, that Mr. Chance came over, and asked me to attend a concert that evening with himself and Miss Sprig, and he very narrowly avoided receiving the bachelors’ buttons that Mrs. Catlin had but just escaped.

I strode indoors, and began packing some of my effects, for I was resolved to move that day, or the next. Not because I had discovered I had such fools for neighbors—I had always known that—but because I had just discovered that they had a fool for a neighbor.

Worldly considerations prevailed with me, and I took out the Penates that I had slammed into a trunk, mended their broken noses, and set them in place once more; but I hid myself away for several days, much as Moses was hidden, but for a less dignified reason.

After a time, I cooled off, and decided to accept the world as it stood, and not to rage because the millennium did not come before I was fitted to enjoy it.

Mrs. Purblind ran over one afternoon, and I could see that she was far from happy. I had noticed for some weeks various changes in the direction of improvement, in her care of her husband and household. I had also noticed that Mr. Purblind’s conduct did not keep pace with these improvements, but I fancied Mrs. Purblind was not sharp enough to see or sensitive enough to care. In this it seems I erred, as I have in one, or perhaps two, other directions during my life.

As Mrs. Purblind, for the first time since I have known her, didn’t seem to care to talk, I took up a book at random, and began reading aloud. As luck would have it, I stumbled into some passages descriptive of the ideal home, and before I could stumble out again, the poor woman burst into tears. I suppose that tender little sentence served as the key that unlocked the floodgates. As soon as her grief had spent itself, she apologized, and ascribed her tears to bad news in a letter or something, and shortly afterward left. I watched her walking down the street, until my eyes were too dim to see her. It grieved me sorely that the cause of her sorrow was so deep, and so delicate that I could not offer her my sympathy. Her tears were piteous to me, and I wanted to take her to my heart, and tell her how sorry I was for her; but to do that would have been to take advantage of her moment of weakness, and that I could not—must not do. So I let her go from me with merely a few commonplace expressions of regret that she had received disturbing news, while all the time my heart was aching in unison with hers, and I kept her with me in thought, all day.

I went down to the lake directly after dinner; several things were troubling me, and I wanted to lay my puzzled head on Mother Nature’s bosom.

My run down the steep sides of the bluff set the blood to coursing smartly through my veins, and a new and more cheerful stream of thought to flowing.

I was tired that night, and it was a luxury to lie flat upon my back on the beach, listening to the rhythmical thud of the big, long wave at my feet, and the song of the stars overhead. There is something unspeakably tranquillizing in the studded dome of heaven; there is also something unspeakably sad. It bends over the struggling, yearning, aching human heart, as a mother, who has attained that peace which is the outgrowth of suffering, bends over the passion, the sobbing, and the despair of her child.

“Hush, hush, it is all for the best.”

“I cannot—will not bear it!”

“Hush, you know not what you say. God’s hand is in it all.”

“There is no God in this, or if there is, He hates me!”

“Ah, my child, He loves you with unutterable love, and pities with unutterable pity. Yet a little while, and the day shall shine upon you; then you will know—a little while.”

I turned from the great vault above me, and looked out upon the restive waters, and as I turned I saw a shadowy Mrs. Purblind sitting beside me on the beach, and questioning with sad eyes and heart, the stars that bent to listen.

“I have tried,” she said; her face, usually so thoughtless, tear-stained, and quivering.

“Yes, I know you have tried,” I answered; “I have seen that!”

“But he is just the same.”

“Yes, and will be for a long time, and you will have to go on trying for years, if you want to carry him back to the old days,” I said.

“That’s one of the hardest things in all the world!” she cried passionately, “if we stop doing right—the right stops with us, but if we stop doing wrong and begin to do right, the wrong goes on.”

“Not for always,” I said, looking up to the stars.

“Oh, for so long!”

The great dome rich with gems, and deep with peace, bent over her, and by and by her sobs ceased.

“You are trying, I know,” I reiterated, “but you don’t understand—you can’t, for you have only a woman’s nature.”

“What should I have, pray?”

“A woman’s, and a man’s, and a child’s, to be a perfect wife and mother; that is, you must be able to comprehend them all. Your husband came home cross to-night.”

“Yes, irritable toward us all, and I so hoped to have everything pleasant this evening.”

“He, too, had his hopes to-day, and they were flung to the ground, and broken before his eyes.”

“What do you mean?”

“The special agent of a company that he has for a year been working to get, has been in town.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Yesterday this agent led him to suppose he was to be the favored one. All to-day he has been working toward that end, and near night he heard that this man had gone, without even saying good-by. You remember that Mr. Purblind left home in a hurry this morning, with scarcely a bite of breakfast; he took very little luncheon, and——”

“Well, we had dinner at the usual time, if he’d said he was hungry, I’d have hurried it.”

“He was not hungry—he was much more than that. Did you ever see a vessel whose fuel is well-nigh exhausted drag herself into port? What is the first thing to be done?”

“I don’t know—replenish her?”

“Yes, put coal on board. Now when I saw your husband walk up to his front door, I said to myself, he needs coaling. A good home should be a good coaling station; remember that.”

“But what of me?” she asked with some impatience, “I, too, have my worries and exertions—do I never need coaling?”

“Frequently,” I answered.

“Well, who is to coal me, I should like to know?”

“Yourself.”

“That’s rather one-sided, I think. Why shouldn’t my husband look to that?”

“My dear,” I said earnestly, “I never knew but one man who saw when his wife needed coaling, and attended to her wants. When he died (for the gods loved him), it was found that his shoulder-blades were abnormally large—at least so the doctors said, but I knew all the time that his wings had budded.”

“Well, this life is too much for me,” murmured Mrs. Purblind drearily.

“Then don’t attempt the next.”

“I shan’t, if I can help it, and yet I’m like to soon, for Mr. Purblind’s mother is coming on a visit to us, and I know she’ll worry the breath out of me.”

“Don’t let her.”

“How can I help it?”

“By keeping the peace with her.”

“Oh, I’ve tried that before; I’ve done everything I could for her, and deferred to her, and ignored myself until I seemed to fade out of existence, but it didn’t work.”

“Oh, yes, it did, for it made her ten times as troublesome as before.”

“It certainly did, but what do you mean?”

“I mean that a mother-in-law is like a child, in that she is spoiled by having her own way.”

“But what can I do?”

“Walk calmly on, doing the best you can, but recognizing your own authority and dignity, and finally she will come to recognize it. Be mistress of your own household, and director of your own children—all this quietly and pleasantly, but without wavering, and in the end she will respect and probably admire you, though she will never think you do just right, or are just the woman who ought to have married her son.”

“But I’ve always been in hopes of making her love me as she loves her own daughter.”

“That is what every romantic woman starts out with, but by and by, in the storm and stress of domestic life, that ideal is cast overboard, as a struggling ship throws its extra cargo over the rail.”

“Why is it, I wonder, a man never fights with his father-in-law. Men are said to be naturally pugnacious.”

“That’s a mistake, my dear; a man would go several miles any day to avoid a fuss; it is we women who delight in scraps. A man occasionally has a little set-to with the girl’s father, before he gains his consent to the engagement, but once he’s married, it’s the old lady he has to train for, or I should say who trains for him, because as a general thing it is she who gives battle, not he. The real conflict, however, takes place between the two women—the wife and her mother-in-law. If you want to see ‘de fur fly,’ as the darkies say, you must always come over to the feminine side of the house. Then you’ll have your fill of explanations, expostulations, and recriminations.”

“Well, certainly I never had any trouble with my father-in-law.”

“Trouble! Do you know what I’d do, if I had a troublesome father-in-law?”

“No—murder him?”

“Murder him, indeed! Woman, have you no mercantile instinct? That would be like killing the goose that lays the golden egg. Why, the first showman would take the old gentleman off my hands, and pay me a handsome price for him. You must know that a troublesome father-in-law is so rare that the public would flock to see him. But you couldn’t get anything for a troublesome mother-in-law. There are too many families trying to get rid of them, at any price. The sale of parents-in-law is governed by the same laws as other commodities, and these interfering, mischief-making mothers-in-law have become a drug in the market.”

“Well, there is Mrs. Earnest, her mother-in-law is a jewel.”

“Ah, now you mention a most valuable piece of property, for a woman like that—who models her conduct on the pattern of Aunt Betsey Trotwood, in David Copperfield’s household, is a jewel of such magnitude and brilliancy, that she will some day be seen sparkling in Abraham’s bosom, from a distance of millions of miles.”

“Well, how would you cook mothers-in-law?”

“Make a delicious dish of your husband and then take a pinch—a good pinch—of mother-in-law, and throw her in as ‘sass.’ Speaking of this, remember that too many cooks spoil the broth, and wife and mother-in-law combined generally make a pretty mess of the husband.”

VI

After quite a brisk tramp along, or near the beach, I turned back; but before going home again, I wished to come in closer contact with the tumultuous waters. At risk of being wet by the spray, which the waves were tossing on high, much as an excited horse tosses the foam from his chafing mouth, I climbed around the little bathing house, set on the shore end of the pier, and then boldly walked out, and took my seat in the midst of the tumult.

The passion of the lake was magnificent; far out—as far as eye could stretch—there were oncoming waves; the clan was gathering, and all in battle array. What an overwhelming charge they made! Surely no one could resist that onslaught. There was no deliberation, as was usual with a moderately heavy sea; no calm, inevitable heaving of the water; no steady rising, ever higher and higher, until it crested, curved, and fell with a boom. There was nothing of this to-day; no preparation; everything was ready; the warriors, armed and mounted, were already making the attack.

For a time I gloried in it all; even the anger of the waves was more admirable than terrific in my sight. It seemed as though they interpreted my boldness as defiance, and accepted the challenge. From near, from far, they were coming, and all upon me, or if that is taking too much to myself, they were making their attack upon the shore, meaning to claim it for their own, and incidentally to sweep me, a poor, insignificant atom, from their sight.

By and by I found myself oppressed with the desolation of the scene. As the day waned, and the chill that foreshadows night fell upon me, or rather rose upon me, from the cold waters, I began to feel lonely and unprotected. The waves looked so hungry, so cruel; they reached out and up toward me; they encircled with the inevitable, as with a relentless fate. I began to be afraid of them, and I rose to go back to shore.

Unlike the ocean, the lake is fixed; but that day the increase of the waves, in height and fury, had the effect of a rising tide. I realized that it would be very difficult for me to get off the pier alone, and I was more than relieved to see Randolph Chance, who had come down for a look at the lake before taking his train to the city. He joined me without trouble; a man can perform those feats so easily, whereas a woman is physically hampered.

“You’re in rather a bleak place, Miss Leigh,” he said.

“Yes, I have just begun to realize that.”

“Oh, well, we’ll manage to get off safely; but you mustn’t mind a little wetting. Just give yourself to me, and we’ll be on shore in a minute.”

I gladly did as he bade me; it was luxury just then to have some one as strong and capable as he take the reins. He led me around the bathing house, and then lifted me from the pier. As he set me safely on the shore, his eyes met mine, and his look was a revelation to me. I was, for a moment, too startled to think, and the strangest sensation I ever experienced crept over me. If a look could speak, Randolph Chance—but I did not put it into words—not then, at least, but it was all very strange to me—most inexplicable.

We walked on quietly, both, I dare say, feeling our silence to be a trifle awkward. It was for this reason that I decided to shorten the time of our being together, by stopping at the house of a friend. The wetting I had received from the waves did not amount to anything for one so hardy as myself, so I was not deterred on that account.

The house where I stopped was a pleasant resort for me. Both Mr. and Mrs. Bachelor were interesting people. I had known Mr. Bachelor for fifteen years. He had once been one of our young men, as the saying is, young merely in the sense of being single, not in actual years, for at the time I met him he was nearer the forty than the thirty line. Nature seemed to have marked him for single—cussedness, I had almost said, from the first. He was no favorite with any set, being grumpy, fussy, and peculiar. But five years after he rose into sight above my horizon he married a most sensible, lovely woman; not a child, by the way, for she was almost forty; and in less than no time, it seemed to us, had a family of four children about him, one following the other so closely that the predecessor was all but overtaken. At first we said among ourselves that he must have borrowed these infants, and stuck them up in his home for appearance’s sake, in some such manner as the proprietor of a summer hotel once stuck a number of trees in his grounds, to make a sandy, barren spot seem fertile and enticing. But by and by we became convinced that these little human shoots were his very own, not alone because they evinced some disagreeable crotchets similar to his, but also because of the love he bore them, and the change they wrought in his character and life. Even around court the man was regarded differently; warmth and esteem being extended him now in place of the dislike he had formerly aroused. He had never ceased to be a study to me, and a certain flavor of romance hung about his home—a delightful flavor, that made it an attractive visiting spot. So it was with considerable pleasure that I called upon this particular day.

I was shown into the parlor—a comfortable room, back of which was a most home-like apartment, called the study. As I sat there, awaiting Mrs. Bachelor’s coming, I noticed that her husband’s desk, which stood in the center of the study, was strewn with dolls, and paraphernalia closely related thereto. My observations were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Bachelor, who welcomed me in her cordial, cheery way. A minute later Mr. Bachelor came in, and gave me what was for him, a most friendly greeting. He excused himself in a little while, and went into his study. He had, so his wife explained, been ill with a cold for a day or two, and had been working at home the while, to make ready for the approaching trial of an important case.

Upon his entering the study, a scene occurred which I shall endeavor to give you as near to the life as possible. As a matter of course he steered directly for his desk, and his eye immediately fell upon a quantity of grandchildren, variously disposed thereon.

“Well, I declare!” he exclaimed; “if this isn’t outrageous!” and he gathered up the whole crop—there were fully a dozen dolls, in all stages of development, and much doll furniture, and toggery of all kinds.

After dumping the obnoxious elements on to a divan, he returned to his desk, and with much grumbling sorted out his law-papers, and went to work. But soon after he had cleared his visage, as it were, his small daughter—a pretty child, four years old—ran into the room hugging two puggy puppies, and two kittens of tender age. It did not take her long to grasp the situation. Running to the divan, she uttered a series of cries, indicative both of alarm and displeasure.

“What—what—what is the matter?” said Mr. Bachelor, who had probably forgotten his offense by this time.

“You naughty papa!” cried the child; “what did you disturve my dollies for?”

“What did you put them on my desk for?” queried her father indignantly; “the idea! I haven’t a spot on earth I can call my own.”

“You’ve just mussed their best frocks all up,” continued the child, who, without paying the slightest attention to her father’s vigorous protest, was rapidly replacing her family, puppies, kittens, and all, on the desk.

“I tell you I can’t have them here! I have important papers around, and I must be allowed to work in peace. Take them off!”

He started to sweep them on to the floor, but the little girl uttered a shriek.

“Papa, papa, don’t,” she screamed. Then, as he desisted, she added, “They’ve just dot to be here—it’s the bestest, highest table, and the little doggies and kitties can’t jump off, and I’m doing to have a tea-party with Mamie Williams. You must put your nasty old papers somewhere else.”

“This is an outrage!” he exclaimed, standing up and declaiming as if he were in court; “this is imposition run riot; it has reached a climax, and I’ll endure it no longer. Evidently I have no rights that even the smallest and youngest in the household is bound to respect. It is a notorious fact that I am ruled with a rod of iron, and that even this baby of the family flouts me. I say I will stand it no longer. I have been held with a tight rein, and a curb bit, but I will turn at last.”

In his excitement, his metaphors became confused, horses and worms being all mixed up in a heap.

“Take the desk, take the whole of it, and to-morrow I shall leave the house! I shall go back to my bachelor quarters, where I once lived in peace.”

The child regarded him seriously, from out her great, brown eyes.

“Don’t go away, papa,” she said at last, “you may have a little of your desk, if you won’t take too much. I didn’t mean to be cross at you,” she added, with a pathetic quiver of her lip.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the father hastily, “there, there!” and he laid his hand softly on her curly little head, “I guess we’ll get on somehow; if I can have a part of the desk, that’ll answer. It’s big enough for two, I guess.”

And he began moving his papers around.

“Not there, papa,” said the little tyrant; “no, that’s the sunny side, and little bowwow must be there, ’cause he’s dot the badest cold, and the kitties haven’t dot but little weeny eyes yet, and they must be where it’s most lightest.”

“Well, well, well, where may I sit? I must get to work.”

“You may sit right there, and you mustn’t fiddet, ’cause you’ll upset dolly’s crib, if you do.”

Soon he was safely bestowed, off on one side, and as he obediently kept to his limitations, all proceeded happily.

During this domestic scrimmage, Mrs. Bachelor went on chatting in her lively, pleasant fashion with me, never betraying, in any way, that she overheard the scene in the study. I was so occupied with it, that I could pay no heed to her remarks; but she was a wise woman, and knew that her husband was being cooked to a delicious turn, and that any interference on her part, would spoil the dish. I have since learned that occasionally, when she sees that the fire is really too hot for him, she comes to his rescue.

“If he sputters and fizzes, don’t be anxious; some husbands do this till they are quite done.”

Evidently Mrs. Bachelor has studied her cook-book.

VII

I was daily becoming more interested in another acquaintance—Mr. Gregory, a man of years, whom I had known for some time. He had been a visitor at our house when my parents were living, and had, from time to time, shown me friendly attentions since their death. He frequently invited me to places of entertainment, something Randolph Chance seldom did, and in many ways contributed to my comfort and happiness. Single women are very dependent upon their men friends for pleasures of this sort; few of them care to go out at night alone, and even when they go in company with each other, the occasion lacks a zest which belongs to it when a woman has an escort. It is strange that many men—many of those who believe in the dependence of women, fall into the selfish habit of going alone to theater, concert, and lecture, and so force the women of their acquaintance into a position which their sentiments would seem to deprecate.

While in no way obtrusive, or gushing in his attentions, Mr. Gregory was most thoughtful and kind, and few women are without appreciation of conduct of this type.

Life flowed on with me with a quiet current. I was not a woman to make scenes with myself or others, and my circumstances were such as to permit of an undisturbed tenor of way.

One bright afternoon, just as I returned from a long walk, Mrs. Purblind ran over to see me, and soon afterward, Mrs. Cynic dropped in. I never could bear this latter woman; something malevolent seems to emanate from her; something that is more or less unhealthful to the moral nature of all who come in contact with it, just as the miasma from a swamp is poisonous to the physical being.

It chanced that I had just finished writing a little story, drawn from the life-page of my domestic experience; it was so endeared to my memory that I was not like to forget it, and yet, in the course of years, its outlines would probably fade a trifle if I did not take care to preserve their distinctness; for that reason I had written it out.

I ought to have had better sense than to read anything of this kind to Mrs. Cynic. In the presence of such people, that which is fresh, beautiful, and holy withers, as a cluster of dewy wild flowers is parched and killed by the hot, sterile breath of a furnace.

Usually I have some judgment in such matters, but that day all discretion seemed to take wings.

A remark of Mrs. Purblind’s led up to the subject. This little woman can say ugly things at times, but they are stung out of her, as it were, by some particular hurt, and are not the expression of her real nature. She has a kind, good heart, though her judgment and tact are somewhat lacking.

We happened to be speaking of men, and something was said about their capacity for devotion, when Mrs. Purblind exclaimed:

“Devotion! the masculine nature doesn’t know the meaning of the word, unless it is devotion to self.”

“I must read you a little story I’ve written to-day. It’s a true one, remember—I think I shall call it, ‘Devotion’.”

I went to my desk, took out the manuscript, and read as follows:

“A few years ago I owned a pair of foxhounds. Duke was the gentleman of the family, and Lady was his consort, and a lady she was indeed. I can hardly imagine a human creature of greater intelligence and refinement than this dumb beast. The attachment between herself and Duke was unique in its strength, and in its demonstration. He was fully as noble and as intelligent as she, but of a less lively, cheerful temperament. The arrival of six little Dukes was an occasion of anxiety and excitement for us all, and we were much relieved when the event was safely over, and we saw Lady and her beautiful family established in peace and comfort. Matters had run smoothly for about four or five weeks, when one day I was startled by a series of sharp yelps, which I knew came from Lady. I ran to the window, and saw the poor creature rolling in the middle of the street, in the greatest pain. By her side was Duke, and his outcries mingled with hers. The hard-hearted teamster, whose wagon had done the mischief, had driven off, but I ran to the rescue, and finally got her into the stable, where her little ones were awaiting her. She only lived a few hours, and her last act was an effort to nurse her clamorous doggies, while with her great, sad eyes she seemed to say good-by to Duke! The grief of this noble fellow was so great that we thought he would go mad. For a time he refused to let us come near her. He stood over her, licking her senseless form, pushing her gently once in a while with his head and paws, and then uttering lamentable cries when he saw that she did not move, or in any way respond; and meanwhile the tiny dogs were crawling over her, and mingling their voices with their father’s deep notes of distress. It was a most pitiable sight, and we all breathed a sigh of relief when the dear old fellow permitted us to lead him off into the house, and we had an opportunity to dispose of poor Lady. I’ll not try to tell of Duke’s excitement and distress when he missed her; of his frantic search all over the place, and of how we followed him about, and talked to him, and tried to divert him; or how we all—Duke, and the rest of us, finally sat down in the stable, beside the motherless little family, and wept together.

“The morning after Lady died, I went out to the stable with a cup of warm milk. I had not been able to do anything with the puggy little dogs the evening before, but I thought that their sharp hunger, after several hours of abstinence, would lead them to make an effort to drink. I carried a spoon with me, also a rag to suck, and a bottle, with a nipple—all kinds of appliances, in fact.

“What was my surprise upon entering the stable, to find Duke occupying Lady’s place. He was evidently trying to answer the small dogs’ clamorous demand for breakfast, and it was also plain that his failure in this respect amazed and bewildered him. He lay down just as he had seen Lady do, and when this did not suffice he tried another position; failing again, he withdrew a few paces, and sat for a moment in an attitude of profound thought; returning soon, and trying another device. This resulting unfavorably, he made still another, and then another attempt, and finally, grieved to the heart, and worried by the hungry cries of the small dogs, he withdrew once more, and lifting his nose high in air, deliberately yowled.

“At this point I obtruded myself upon the scene and went up to the dear old dog, took his distressed head in my arms, and talked to him. I explained to him the difficulty of the situation; how, owing to circumstances quite beyond his control, he could not take Lady’s place. I urged upon him that he must yield gracefully to his limitations; showed him my appliances, and then when I had soothed and interested him, and he had consented to desist, and let me try, I made my essay.

“It was a study for an artist—my appealing, pitying, impatient, scolding efforts to induce those unreasonable little creatures to accept a rag, or a bottle in place of a mother. I shouldn’t have cared so much, that is, I could have taken longer without minding it, had it not been for Duke. His anxiety was so great, and his distress over their cries so keen, that I was quite unnerved, and as is often the case, I showed my concern by scolding and abusing the objects in whose behalf I was exerting myself.

“I was all but ready to give up, when one of the smallest and liveliest of the puppies (a feminine creature, of course) suddenly seized upon the nipple of the bottle with a lusty grip, and sucked away till she was all but strangled with milk. Her example was speedily followed by the others, but before I had gone the rounds Duke comprehended that our trials were ended, and then—well, the dignified, sad-faced old doggie took leave of his wits, temporarily, as well as his dignity. He capered, he rolled on the ground, he barked, he bayed, he played leap-frog over my head, did everything but stand on end, and very nearly that, in his joy.

“From that time on he never failed to be present when his infants were fed, and when I weaned them, and taught them to drink, he was an interested spectator; helpful too, for one time when a small dog was obdurate, he took him by the nape of the neck, and shook him thoroughly, before turning him over to me for another trial. On another occasion, the pig of the family drank too deep, as it were, from the flowing bowl, and might have been drowned had it not been for his watchful parent. Duke noticed that the small fore-quarters were plunged into the liquid dinner; he also observed that the hind quarters were slowly rising in midair. He watched all this, with his accustomed, kindly gravity, until the equilibrium was lost, and Master Pup plunged into the pearly sea. Then the startled father leaped to his feet, snatched his offspring from a milky grave, and laid him, sneezing and choking, sadder and wiser, on the sunny grass-plat to dry.

“In due time Duke recovered, in a measure, from his grief over Lady’s death, and took unto himself another partner. As is usual in the case of widowers, his second choice was injudicious, for Fanchon was a giddy, young thing, that didn’t have sense enough to come in out of the rain.

“But Duke saw no defects; he was all tenderness and attention.

“It was early winter, but the weather was intensely cold, and we had taken Duke and Fanchon in from the stable, and had housed them comfortably in the cellar.

“One night I was wakened out of a sound sleep by cries of distress. I called my sister and her husband, who were visiting me, and in various costumes, all hands went below. Fanchon was running about, crying and moaning, and Duke was alternately making frantic efforts to soothe her, and kiyiying in a manner that was fearful to hear. We succeeded at last in getting Fanchon to heed us, and coaxed her to settle down in a comfortable bed we made for her on the far side of the cellar, where she would have the benefit of the warmth from the furnace, and would be out of the way of the cold air which came in through a window, broken the day before.

“As soon as she was pacified, Duke was again happy, and he cheerfully lay down to rest. We retired to our rooms, and being very weary, with much sightseeing during the day, dropped into a sound sleep. The next morning I hurried down into the cellar, wondering whether I should see two dogs, or a dozen. To my surprise and dismay, I saw none at all. The cellar was silent and deserted. I opened the outer door, and with a failing heart, stepped into the clear, bitter cold of a temperature something like fifteen degrees below zero. Just around the corner of the house, in a nook slightly sheltered from the biting air, I came upon the family. Fanchon lay upon the ground, the snow carefully pushed up around her, and her clinging little ones, who were taking their breakfast. Over all—Fanchon and her puppies—covering them with his faithful body—shielding them with his never-failing love and devotion, was my noble hound—as noble, as faithful a dog, as ever man or woman loved. I called to him, and rubbed him, but all in vain, and meanwhile stupid, silly Fanchon, that had foolishly left her warm bed in the cellar, looked on with cheerful indifference, and wagged her tail.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Cynic, when I had concluded the reading, “that story seems to me to prove but one thing.”

“And what is that, pray?” I asked, realizing I had been foolish to read such a tale to such an auditor.

“Why, the truth of Madame de Staël’s remark: ‘The more I see of men, the more I admire dogs.’”

That hateful woman! She always leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. I know she springs from some corrupt ancestry. She has all the marks of inward decay upon her.

When she had gone, Mrs. Purblind and I breathed more freely.

“She doesn’t believe in anything good,” said Mrs. Purblind.

“No,” I answered in a tone of disgust, “she has nothing within her to answer to it.”

“How different she is from Mrs. Earnest,” continued Mrs. Purblind; “why, you can hardly convince that woman that anyone is really mean, and goodness knows she has trouble enough to make her bitter. What a husband she’s got! That man makes me so mad! He’s ugly from sheer badness.”

I thought for a moment, and then I assented. I really do believe that man is ugly without cause. He and his wife live at some distance from us, and I’ve often visited them. I should like to give you a scene to which I was witness one evening when I was a trifle ill, and lay on a divan just out of their dining room.

Mrs. Earnest is like a delicate flower that lifts its pretty face and smiles in the sunlight of love, but is bowed and broken ’neath the thunder-cloud and storm. She longs to make her home attractive, but her husband has no sympathy with this desire; to him home is merely the place where he finds food and lodging, and a safety valve for such moods and tempers as he is obliged to keep under control in the business world.

The efforts that this poor little wife makes, in her timid way, to start up pleasant subjects of conversation would move a rock to tears.

This is the scene, as I recall it—a specimen scene.

The family—husband, wife, and three little children were at dinner, as I said.

“What’s been happening to-day? anything of interest?” asked the little wife.

“Not that I know of,” was the gruff reply.

Silence, broken by the occasional sound of eating implements, ensued.

“Pass the bread, will you?” he said in a short tone, directly.

“See how you like this bread; we are trying the entire wheat flour. I think it’s very nice tasting, and they claim it’s rich in nutrition. It’s warranted to make blood, bone, and muscle—brain, too, I believe. I’m going to eat several pounds a day; I may astonish the world yet.”

This feeble joke was received in stolid silence, and the poor little wife crept into her shell.

After a time she peeped out again, and made another effort.

“I went to the womans’ club this afternoon; Mrs. Pierson invited me. They had a very interesting meeting; they brought up the subject of smoke consumers. I never realized before how much property is ruined yearly by the smoke. It does seem as if manufacturers ought to use consumers.”

At this point Bruin openly yawned, and the little wife again retired. But with astonishing elasticity of courage she issued from her shell once more, this time with the hope that a more masculine theme would meet with some response.

“They brought a petition around here to-day for us to sign. It seems there is some talk of flooring the reservoir and using it as a beer garden this coming summer, and the neighborhood has been called upon to protest against it.”

“I know all about that,” he growled.

“Have you signed it?”

“I have.”

Again silence fell as a wet cloak upon them, and the little woman sat there racking her brains, almost depleted by this time, for the atmosphere which such a man as that creates is warranted to dry up all the intellectual juices.

One more despairing effort. The children had now left the table, so anecdotes of them were in order. Probably the poor little wife thought that this man could be wakened into attention by a story about one of his children.

“Mamie asked me where cats went to when they died. ‘They don’t go anywhere,’ I said; ‘when they die, that’s the end of them.’

“‘Do they turn to dust?’ she asked.

“‘Yes, just turn to dust,’ I said.

“‘Why, then,’ she exclaimed, and her eyes grew as big as saucers, ‘when horses run ’long the streets, are they kicking up cats?’”

All the man said was, “Umph,” and the little wife’s peal of merry laughter was checked, and the ha ha’s grew fainter and spread farther and farther apart, until they died away altogether, and I felt like charging upon that burly, surly demon, and butting him out of the window.

“How would you serve such a man, if you were his wife?” asked Mrs. Purblind.

“Roasted!”

VIII

Mr. Gregory’s attentions had become an accepted fact in my life. They were dignified and steadfast, and I received them with a certain calm pleasure. They had not, as yet, reached the point of declaration, but it was clear to me, and to everyone else, who knew anything about the matter, that they were tending thither, and my own thought had reached the point of acceptance. I had the greatest respect for him as a man; we were congenial in our tastes, and personally agreeable to one another. The position he had to offer me was a most dignified, desirable one, as he was not only a man of sterling integrity, but also a man of wealth; there was, in short, everything in favor of the alliance, and I looked upon it quietly, but with a sense of substantial, and steadfast comfort.

Such an event as a marriage cannot even in prospect, face a thoughtful woman without making a great change in her life. Mr. Gregory was that type of man who ought not to be allowed to offer himself in a direction where there was no intention of acceptance, for his character and age—he was fifty or more—forbade all thought of lightness or trifling, and gave one the assurance that any marked attention he might show, was significant. My acquaintance with him had extended over several years, and during this period there had been abundant opportunity, on both sides, for study of character.

In a quiet way, I had been arranging my affairs, preparatory to my expected change in manner of life. I had, as a matter of course, done considerable thinking during this time. I had experienced none of the rapture always associated with a romantic attachment, but I was quietly happy, and this condition was a far more natural one for me, with my cool, matter-of-fact temperament—a far more promising one, in respect to future enjoyment, I felt, than something more ecstatic.

I had seen but little of Mr. Chance for some weeks. He had called several times, but on each of these occasions, we had passed a somewhat constrained, and I thought, a rather dull evening. Just why this constraint should have crept into our intercourse when we seemed to be coming to a better understanding than heretofore, and were beginning to enjoy a warmer degree of friendship than we had known, I could not understand; but its presence was undeniable, and it spoiled everything for me, as far as he was concerned, causing me to look upon his calls in the light of a bore, rather than as a pleasure, as I once had done. Occasionally a memory of that evening when he came to my rescue, as the hungry, cruel waves gathered like wolves about me, would flit across my mind, as a shadow may flit across a sunlit hill. Once in a long while I found myself dwelling upon the look he gave me that night, and this, and the memory of his touch, as he lifted me off the pier, would dim the sunshine of my cheerfulness. I could not have explained this to myself, and I never dwelt upon the thought; whether from disinclination, or from fear, I could not tell. I only knew that I always turned from it abruptly, and passed on to my plans affecting my life with Mr. Gregory. It was quite easy to plan in this direction, for there was nothing uncertain, as there might have been in the case of a younger man. Mr. Gregory was fixed in his tastes, and way of life; I, too, at my age, had formed settled habits, and this he knew; but, fortunately, in most directions, we were in harmony, and where we were not, we had fallen into a way of making certain concessions.

So I had matters pretty well laid out; all my theories, born of years of close observation of affairs domestic, were now brought to bear on my own future. Secretly I esteemed myself a competent cook, when a husband was the dish under discussion. Mr. Gregory was not one to require any very complicated wisdom in the culinary art. A little gentle stewing; no strong seasoning; no violent changes or methods of any sort; but regularity, evenness; quiet affection; respect; comfort, and general conformance to taste and nature would be necessary, and I felt myself fully equal to it all.

Matters had well-nigh culminated, for I had received a note from Mr. Gregory asking when I would be at home to him, and saying that he had a matter of great moment to both of us, to lay before me. I set an evening, and then awaited his coming without the slightest quickening of my pulse, but with a serenity and cheerfulness that appealed to my common sense as the surest forecast of happiness.

Just at this juncture, a swift turn of the wind-cock, or some imprudence of diet, resulted in my taking cold—a most unusual procedure for me, and at the time of Mr. Gregory’s call I was unable to see him, being confined to my bed, in the care of a doctor, who was fighting a case of threatened pneumonia.

Mr. Gregory expressed his sincere regret, and the next day called again, and left flowers. These attentions were repeated daily, and soon after hearing of my improvement, he wrote me a letter in which he said that which he had intended to say on the evening of the day I fell ill. He did not request a reply; in fact, he asked me to withhold my answer until I should be able to see him in person. It would have been wiser, perhaps, he said, to have postponed any word on the subject until I had recovered, but he had found it difficult to delay the expression of his feeling toward me, and hence had written.

This last rather surprised me, for Mr. Gregory had always seemed so unlikely to be swayed by impulse, or carried, in the slightest degree, beyond a point indicated by his judgment. It simply went to prove that the most regularly and smoothly laid-out man, if one may so express it, has unsuspected crooks and turns.

I had no desire to answer the letter, being perfectly able and willing to wait until I should see him. In fact, instead of hastening the time for my acceptance, I rather delayed it, for I reached a point in my convalescence, when I was able to go down to the parlor, had I so wished, and still did not.

Each day of my illness, a lovely bouquet of flowers had been left at my door. They came direct from the greenhouse, and were left without card, or sign of the giver. I had an eccentric little friend who was quite devoted to me, and was fond of keeping her left hand in darkest ignorance of the performances of its counterpart—the right hand—and I attributed this delicate and beautiful token of sympathy and affection to her; but, for some inexplicable reason, every morning when the flowers were brought to my room, and I took them in my hand, a strange feeling came over me—a feeling I had never had toward my little friend.

Over two weeks had passed, and I was downstairs in the study. My nurse had gone out, my housekeeper was busy, and I was very lonely. I was standing at the window, looking westward. The sun had gone down in regal splendor. Some fête was in progression in the sky, for the attendants of the god of day were resplendent in attire. They had been marshalled from all quarters of the heavens, and their stately and solemn procession, brilliant with the most gorgeous red, royal purple, and dazzling gold, had caused my heart to dilate with awe and reverential admiration.

The lake, stirred by the wonderful pageant, caught the many hues as they dropped from heaven, and tossed them on high in joyous, iridescent waves.

The climax of majesty and beauty was reached, and then the convocation broke up—not suddenly, but slowly, and with gracious dignity. The sun sank into the waiting arms of the unknown; the lights of heaven faded, and the clouds slowly melted into dusk.

The scene had stirred me as I am seldom stirred, and with the oncoming of night new thoughts and feelings rose from their lair, as strange and beautiful wild animals step from their caves into the deep mystery of darkness.

My neighbor next door—Mrs. Thrush, sat on her broad, vine-clad gallery, rocking her little child in her arms. By her side sat her husband, with one arm thrown across her lap. He had laid his paper down, for the daylight was fading, and perhaps his thought was too happy to stoop to daily news. Softly the little wife and mother sang; she had a sweet home voice, and no music of orchestra ever moved me as did her lullaby.

I was at that moment an intensely lonely woman. I thought of Mr. Gregory and my future, and still I was lonely.

Far away to the east there was a low, long bank of clouds like a mountain range, and as the poetry and melody of the lullaby rose from the little nest on my left, and stole into my thought, I saw a faint light above this line; then a group of mist-like clouds that moved toward me. Slowly the gray haze, tinged with soft light, began to resolve itself into shadowy forms, and my heart stood still as, in some vague way, I traced a connection between the lullaby and the vision, and realized that a message was coming to me.

I was perfectly calm, but with the calmness which is the outgrowth of an excitement so tense that it is still. As the vision floated nearer, I heard soft music—a crooning, yearning, soul-satisfying lullaby; I saw a little child, a mother, and a father. The child was as beautiful as an angel, and there was that in its face which made my eyes flood with tears, and my heart ache with yearning; the faces of the parents were too vague for me to recognize at first; then slowly, that of the mother became more distinct, and I saw myself before me—myself, a wife and mother; the visible answer to my heart’s deepest, most secret cry. Still the father’s face was hidden, but as the vision floated by, he turned and looked at me—the vision wife—with a look I had seen before, and I uttered a cry as I recognized Randolph Chance.

IX

As I cried out, I turned slightly and, for a moment, lost the picture. It was changed when again I saw it; Randolph Chance was still there, but he no longer advanced toward the vision wife—she had faded into mist; he came slowly toward me. There was a beautiful look on his face—I cannot describe it—it was too holy to translate into language; but I could feel it vibrate through my being until it set my very soul a-quivering. I had no power of resistance—no wish to resist. I almost think I went toward him, and he was as real to me as if he were in the flesh. I could feel him as he put his arm around my waist, and his face touched mine. The vision child had melted away; and we two were alone; I knew my heart then; I knew I loved this man.

It was all over in a few moments, but such moments as make an eternity, for they wipe out the past, even as death blots out a life, and they open a door to the future. Up to that time I had never thought that, without my knowledge or intent, my heart could slip from me—had never dreamed that I, whose life had always been most commonplace—I, who had had my share of wooing, but had never felt an extra heart-beat because of it—no, never dreamed that I, this I, so practical and sensible, could be carried off my feet by a vision. A vision, was it? Yes, and yet real, too real in some ways, since it revealed my innermost thought. A vision! And yet, even now that it had melted into air, I was clinging to it, and instead of resenting its startling revelation of self, was dwelling upon it, and in it, with a delight beyond words.

I sat there in my study, my head bent, and my hands loosely clasped in my lap, living it over and over again. Out of doors, the soft gray dusk had hushed the tired world in its arms. Within, the stillness of night had settled down upon the room. By and by the moon rose above the great waters of the lake, and on shore the trees were casting silent, solemn shadows, made visible by the soft, hazy light that lay between them. Once in a while a bird uttered its night cry, or some little brooding note, and over on the vine-clad gallery, Mrs. Thrush still crooned a lullaby to her little child, who lay asleep—soft and warm, on her mother-breast.

I was no longer lonely, no longer shut out from it all—there was the bird on its nest; the little wife and mother in her home; and I—I was very near them—akin to them. I had seen myself in my home, with my child, and my husband; I had felt his dear arms about me, and his dear face close to mine. I was no longer an alien. I, too, had a place in the heart of another.

Still I sat and dreamed, and even the ringing of my door-bell failed to rouse me: but when I heard the maid say to someone:

“She has been downstairs to-night, but I think she has gone up now, and I don’t like to call her.”

I started forward, saying quickly:

“No, I am here—I will see any one.”

And so he came in, but it was not the one I expected. It was Mr. Gregory.

I think that he found my embarrassment on greeting him both gratifying and encouraging, but its cause was alien to his thought. I was brought back from another world, as it were, with a rude shock, and in my enfeebled condition, consequent upon a severe illness could not control myself. Indeed I did not feel that I was mistress of myself at any time during the evening.

After a word or two, which I cannot recall, I stammered out:

“I was not expecting you this evening—I had not sent for you.”

“I know that you have not,” he answered—then dropping his voice a trifle, he added, “I could not wait any longer—I found it difficult to wait so long as this. I hardly dared hope that I might see you this evening, but I felt I must try.”

Intent upon sparing him the pain of a spoken declaration, I exclaimed:

“Oh, Mr. Gregory, don’t! please don’t say anything more. I am not deserving of your esteem and kindness.”

He came nearer me, and his voice was at once tender and reverent, as he said:

“You are more than worthy of what I have to offer, which is myself, and all that I have.”

“Don’t!” I cried again; “don’t say anything more! Let us imagine this unsaid!”

“Such words can never be recalled,” he said gravely.

“They must be,” I persisted; “I cannot accept! I have nothing to give in return!”

A look of disappointment came over his face, and if I mistake not, it was shaded with displeasure. “I hardly expected this, Miss Leigh, I have hardly been led to expect this.”

“I know what you mean, Mr. Gregory,” I replied, more calmly than I had spoken before; “I know that I have accepted your attentions—you have had every reason to expect a different answer. I’ll not try to deceive you, or keep anything from you. I’ll tell you that I have not been trifling. I have understood you for some time——”

He interrupted me here.

“Yes, you must have done so; my attentions to you could have but one interpretation, if I were a man of honor, and you knew I was that.”

“I did, indeed,” I exclaimed. And then my mind went, with a flash like lightning, to Randolph Chance, and I felt a sudden resentment. Had not he shown me attentions that no man of honor can bestow upon a woman, unless he wishes to make her his wife? Why had he left me in this strait? Why had he not spoken out? Why had he not claimed before the world that which he had taken such pains to win? I was uncertain about Randolph Chance; I had never been uncertain about Mr. Gregory. Why? Because I had perfect confidence in his honor. Was he not the better man—the more trustworthy? Why could I not marry him? I loved another man. A wave of shame and anger swept my face.

“I have all along been expecting to marry you. I have not been trifling,” I cried out.

He stepped forward, and took my hand. It was as cold as ice.

“What is it then, Constance, that has changed you? Have I done anything since your illness to make you think less of me?”

I trembled from head to foot, and my lips were so stiff and dry that they scarce would do my bidding. I must have spoken very indistinctly.

“No—no,” I said slowly; “I will tell you everything—I have done you a wrong, an unintentional wrong, but I will do penance—I have seen myself to-night—” I paused here; Mr. Gregory was a practical man; had I told him that a vision had changed my attitude, he would have thought me insane. I myself had begun to entertain doubts as to my sanity. “I know myself now,” I faltered, “I know my heart—I love another man.”

Mr. Gregory rose, and began pacing the floor.

“This surprises me greatly,” he said at length; “there must have been another courtship—it would seem that you must have known something of how matters were tending.”

“I have known nothing until to-night. There has been no courtship, in the ordinary acceptation of that word—I’ll tell you all, even if it humbles me completely, as a penalty for what I have done to you. The man I love—” I could feel the blood mantling my face and neck, “has never addressed me.”

Mr. Gregory paused, and looked at me.

“This is extraordinary,” he said.

“It is—I know it is—it is most of all so to me, for it is wholly unlike what I have been all my life.”

“Let us not talk of this any more to-night, Miss Leigh,” he said, with evident relief; “I have been wrong to press this matter now, when you are hardly recovered. You are not yourself. This is something transitory, no doubt. Later on, you may feel differently.”

“No, no!” I exclaimed eagerly, “now that we have begun, let us say it all. Don’t—I beg of you, don’t go away with a feeling that I don’t know my mind. I am weak and miserable to-night—” here the tears choked my voice, and I all but broke down, “but I am miserable because I have learned my true feeling, and know that I must disappoint——”

I could not go on, and again he sat down beside me and took my hand.

“I cannot understand you,” he said simply.

“I can’t understand myself,” I replied; “but all this is none the less real for that. I have learned of it to-night, but it has existed before; it explains many things in the past year.”

“If that is the case, then I must accept your decision as final.”

“It is, indeed,” I answered briefly.

He rose, and walked the room in silence again; then pausing once more, he said calmly, and with no trace of anger.

“This is the disappointment of my life.”

I said nothing. What could I say? To utter any platitudes about being sorry, would have been to insult him.

“A man cannot live to my age—I am fifty-two, Miss Leigh—without experiencing disappointment, but I have known nothing equal to this.”

He paced the room a few moments, and then said:

“This interview must be distressing to you. I am very sorry I brought it about before you were strong and well.”

“Say one thing before you go, Mr. Gregory,” I cried, “only say that you don’t think I have willfully misled you—say that you respect me still.”

His face was stirred by a slight quiver, as a placid lake is stirred by an impulse of the evening air.

“You have had, and you always will have my deepest respect, and my deepest affection.”

He took my hand silently, and then quietly left the room.

And I sat there until I heard the front door close. Then I went upstairs, but I remember nothing after reaching the first landing.

They found me lying there. They said I must have fainted.